


God Save the (Prom) King

by running_with_stars



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everybody Loves Hyunjin, Fate & Destiny, Hyunjin is Sad and the rest of skz just want to Help, I took the "8 is fate" line and made it disgustingly literal, Kinda?, Love, M/M, Memories, Multi, No beta we die like skz in this story, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Prom King!Hyunjin, Recovered Memories, Reincarnation, Romance, Screw Destiny, Self-Destruction, Self-Worth, Self-Worth Issues, Teenage Drama, Temporary Character Death, The main universe for this story is high school, as it should be !
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28565487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/running_with_stars/pseuds/running_with_stars
Summary: Even with no crown on his head, Hyunijn was still their king. In rags or silks, full of love or spite, he was theirs, and their lives were bent to fit into his. They didn't mind, and never had. There was a certain calm, knowing there was constancy in their king, in each other.And yet, for all that devotion, not once could they save him. In every life, their king died, no matter how desperately they tried to stop it. Now there were buildings the height of cliffs and lights bright enough to mock the stars. Now was the present—theirpresent. Perhaps this time, they might get it right.But Hyunjin, dressed in designer silk and satiny attention from his peers, certainly didn't make it easy.-Inspired by Molly Kate Kestner's "Prom Queen": Stray Kids reincarnation AU, wherein Hyunjin is always some sort of prince or king that dies, the rest of Stray Kids his personal guard that manage to love him and each other a little more than they should.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Hwang Hyunjin, Everyone/Everyone, Han Jisung | Han/Hwang Hyunjin, Hwang Hyunjin/Everyone, Hwang Hyunjin/Kim Seungmin, Hwang Hyunjin/Lee Felix, Hwang Hyunjin/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Hwang Hyunjin/Seo Changbin, Hwang Hyunjin/Yang Jeongin | I.N, I'm an OT8 whore, OT8 - Relationship, Stray Kids Ensemble/Everyone, Stray Kids Ensemble/Stray Kids Ensemble, What can I say i'm a simple bitch, technically - Relationship
Comments: 44
Kudos: 112





	1. Prologue - Take a Look at the Future

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE NOT A SINGLE BIT OF SELF-CONTROL I AM SO SORRY FOR THE PEOPLE WHO ARE ALWAYS SEEING MY ASS IN THE FANDOM TAGS

He had screamed himself hoarse. _Your Majesty, My Lord, my love._ _Hyunjin, Hyunjin, Hyunjin._ Over and over and over again, until his voice was worn to rasps. Still he screamed, and still he searched. But he knew it, in his heart of hearts. This search was futile. His legs would give out before he heard the voice of his king one more time.

Hyunjin, his king, had died. 

Again, he had died, and _again_ , his guard had failed to protect him. Seven of the deftest minds and most lethal sets of hands, according to written record and spoken word. Yet not once were they capable of keeping him safe. 

Chan's knees couldn't register the pain that bloomed in them as he fell to the ground. Perhaps his bones had broken. It was only doing what his heart had done the moment he felt his king die. 

The castle had gone up in flames. The sky was doused in insidious oranges and writhing smoke. He couldn't tell if the sun or the moon lay behind it, how many hours had passed or how long he was meant to be here. There weren't enough people alive to cause a ruckus or muddle his thoughts. 

"What did I do wrong?" he whispered to whichever embers would listen. "What did we _do wrong?_ We defended him, we stood by him, we helped him learn, we _loved him_." Little fires ignited in his eyes. "What else were we supposed to do?" he asked, voice cresting in volume. "Why give us this task if you're just going to _make us fail!?"_

And fail they had. They lived to protect him only with the promise to lose him. _It'll be different this time_ , they told themselves. _Now, he'll make it through._

What a joke. 

"Next time," he murmured, "we'll—"

No. No, that promise had long since lost its weight. 

"Next time . . . is the last."

 _The last, the last, the_ last . . . . He pressed his words, crimson and searing, into his palm. He kissed his palm to the ground, the closest he could get to wishing the other pieces of him a conscious farewell. A final kiss to the land that had been the latest stage for their everlasting play. He wished he could sink into the stones—that, at the very least, he wouldn't have to live another second without his king or the rest of his guard. 

As if the gods had decided he'd suffered enough, roaring flame crept toward him like a wildcat on a long-awaited hunt.

He didn't mind that the fire encroached on him, let his eyes slip shut as his skin burned as if he'd thrown himself into the sun's white-gold embrace. His king had had hair like that, some eons ago. Brushing his shoulders, coloured like platinum. 

That thought, of Hyunjin in all his radiance, was enough to make his death sting less as his heart slowed down to a stop. 

_Next time will be the last._


	2. Chapter 1 - Who Knows What's Ahead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every single one of you that commented on the prologue (all five, as it stands now) have no idea how much that meant to me :( 💕 and I have no real way of conveying that, so I'll just put all my effort into making this a story you'll enjoy :( you deserve nothing less !
> 
> Also this is set in Canada because that's the only way this is gonna be an accurate depiction of high school

“This is the last time I’m cleaning up after you, Hyunjin Hwang!”

 _You always say that_ , he almost replied. _Why do you always say useless things?_ But that wasn’t fair to his mother, so he busied his mouth with his buzzing toothbrush and pretended he had even a shred of desire to leave the house. Worse, he was leaving the cozy cocoon of his bed for _school_. Absolutely atrocious.

The white noise of the brush made it easy to focus on nothing, just sawing his hand back and forth until the vibrations stopped and the only thing he heard was his mother’s rustling downstairs. Long after his toothbrush went silent, however, he stared into the mirror, convincing himself that the slope of his nose hadn’t changed—that he was still the same Hyunjin he’d been when he’d fallen asleep.

The vivid dreams he had were making that increasingly more difficult.

Last night, it was some dystopian future that mixed in seamlessly with ancient architecture. Skyscrapers became lighthouses for the gliding ships traversing the waters; government buildings had been torn down in favour of temple-esque spires. It had been magical and terrible and inexplicably _real_.

Hyunjin hated things he couldn’t explain.

Only when the mint toothpaste in his mouth burned like it was eating away at his cheeks did he tear himself from his reverie. His lips looked kissed and bitten, rubbed raw and a little plumper than they usually were. A pair of eyes came to mind—how bright they had shone, and how quick Hyunjin had been to mistake that for _affection_. As they said, one man’s trash was another man’s treasure. Perhaps one boy’s affection was another’s vindication.

Perhaps Hyunjin was not meant to be kissed.

“Mom,” he called, “is there coffee on?”

“Half a pot!”

He would do his best to down it all in secret. Maybe if he vibrated at a high enough frequency, he’d knock loose those pesky memories _and_ those strange dreams.

o.O.o

As the garishly yellow bus rolled to a stop in front of him, Hyunjin debated the logistics of simply turning tail and running. His shoes would get coated in enough mud to mistake him for a farmer’s lost son, but the emotional relief he’d get from it would compensate. His reputation as a beauty with an icy-hot interior would be shattered, but that wouldn’t matter if he never returned.

Cars started honking, and Hyunjin decided he had another ten months to make his daring escape; for now, he would board the bus, and he would smile like he loved nothing more. He waved at the portion of the bus’ occupants that called his name, smiling wide and pretty, because this was what he loved.

As far as anyone else was concerned, anyway.

The driver was new, but it didn’t take long for her too to understand that Hyunjin was used to making people wait for him. After another brief moment of Hyunjin clapping his hand against the ones stretched out toward him, she picked up the mic piece for the intercom and demanded everyone sit down. Through her gaze in the elongated mirror, he saw her unspoken words. _You too, Prince Charming._

He’d been too caught up in offering her an apologetic smile to see the bag strap caught around his foot.

He registered the gasps sounding around him before he did the fall, but his body was quicker to react than his mind; planting a hand on the seat to his left, Hyunjin just barely stopped himself from losing an inch off his nose. He was barely a centimeter away from the floor, now; he could see the years of grime that hadn’t _quite_ been removed from the crevices of the metal, and was glad that he’d avoided both a pricey rhinoplasty and a hideous infection.

Completely fed up with the attention he’d managed to get from _everyone_ this morning, he sank into the first available seat and begged the cracking, grey pleather to pull him into its smelly embrace.

“The prince seems to have lost a little bit of grace over the summer,” someone giggled.

“Oh, please, you’d have to surgically remove that cat-like agility from him. I think he’d sprout two heads before he became a klutz.”

 _Let them talk about you_ , his father had always said. _No matter if it’s bad or good, let them talk. Eventually, they’ll reach the ears of someone important, and you’ll be miles ahead, because smart people know rumour from truth._

What shitty logic. If Hyunjin listened to that advice to the T, he’d start dropping it low on TikTok and hope his future employers were impressed with his ass.

“The coffee hasn’t kicked in yet, has it?”

“It never does, when we need it most.”

Hyunjin nearly jumped out of his seat and right back onto the disgusting floor when he heard the voice to his left. When he thought back on it, he’d _seen_ a pair of legs next to the seat he’d collapsed into, but nothing could have prepared him for the voice that came from above them.

“I’m sorry, you’re—”

Oh. Oh, _fuck_.

His face was _pretty_.

It was a big sign in his head, like a marquee, blinking and leaving imprints on the back of his eyelids: PRETTY! PRETTY! PRETTY!

The boy smiled at him, putting up his hands in a show of peace. “Australian? Not what my face implies? A little dirty-looking?”

“Pretty,” Hyunjin choked out, like the moron he was.

The boy’s smile dropped, only to come back tenfold as if he were trying to rival that stupid, non-existent sign in Hyunjin’s head. “Oh!”

Hyunjin had never been so aware of his heartbeat. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have paused like that. Or. You know. Said what I said.”

“You just called me pretty and you’re _apologizing?_ The government needs to copy your DNA. We need more people like you.”

He’d expected nothing but a dulled misery upon boarding the bus, but this boy with a million-watt smile and a paint brush’s splattering of freckles across his cheek was reminding him how much he’d enjoyed this, once. Making conversation, winning over the hearts of the many—getting to _know_ people.

“I’m Hyunjin,” he said, barely withholding himself from sticking a hand out for a shake. That was too stuffy, even for him.

“Felix.”

Hyunjin traced a constellation or two in the freckles stretching over and across Felix’s nose when he asked, “But, you know, you are Australian, right?”

Felix seemed much more pleased at the prospect this time around, adjusting his grip on his backpack as they hit a nasty pothole. “Dad moved here for business. I’m just along for the ride.” Sat on the wheels as they where, it was difficult to ignore the next jolt that had them both clutching the seat in front of them. “So far, it’s a little . . . bumpy.”

Hyunjin was too busy shoving away the feeling of his teeth knocking together to respond to the joke.

“Anything I should know?” Felix asked him, as if sensing there would be no response to his patchy attempt at humour. “About . . . anything? I’m really trying not to fuck up my last year.”

“The windows in the practice rooms were made bigger because people got caught fucking in one of them.”

This was _not_ how he’d earned the title of “prince” among his peers; he was always eloquent and charming and just brash enough to be called quirky _._ But this . . . This was on the first page of _Don’ts_ in the _Conversing for Dummies_ handbook.

Still, Felix seemed humoured, if not a little charmed. “That’s a tidbit of history I’ll never forget. But I was thinking more, like, faux pas. Things I shouldn’t do if I don’t want to be thrown into a trashcan or something.”

Hyunjin eyed him strangely, noting that they were about four turns away from pulling into the parking lot. “Have you actually been to a high school?”

Felix’s cheeks warmed. “I don’t know what Canadian schools are like! How do I know there aren’t jocks that will shove me into a locker just because I look small and dainty.”

“You know,” Hyunjin lilted, “one would argue you’re objectively small and dainty.”

“I could deck at least two guys on the rugby team,” Felix grumbled.

“Invite me. I’d love to see you win.”

Felix cast him a glance from the corner of his eye. “You’re serious,” he observed.

“As a heart attack. I have no doubt you’d take ‘em, easy.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Dancer legs,” Hyunjin pointed out, not even looking at Felix as the bus slowed. “You must be quick, agile. A good match for a rugby player.”

“Should I be concerned that you know what my legs let me do on looks alone?”

“Probably,” he offered, “but it’s just because it takes one to know one.”

The doors opened and Hyunjin joined the twenty or so people on the bus in rising from his seat.

When a hand touched his wrist, the bus disappeared.

_“I know your father has raised you like a prince, Hyunjin, but I think it’s high time you stopped acting like one.”_

_Hyunjin grinned up at Felix, squirming to see if the latter would let up from his straddling position. He didn’t, but that was to be expected. “How else am I supposed to keep your attention?” he said, allowing a shred of genuine petulance into his tone. “You wouldn’t chase after me if I didn’t annoy you.” He dropped his gaze, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “You don’t like it very much when I’m the one doing the chasing.”_

_Felix had always looked gorgeous in sharp black lines and white accents; this time was no different. When he leaned down, Hyunjin had to stop his head from swimming at the visuals presented to him. “I’ve done a terrible job,” Felix said gently, tilting his face back up by his chin, “if you think I wouldn’t move a mountain to keep your eyes on me.”_

_“That’s not a very appropriate thing for a bodyguard to say,” Hyunjin breathed, unable to find his voice._

_“You, Hyunjin, would sooner care about the 1999 US household survey than you would_ propriety. _”_

_“Well then what’s stopping you from kissing me?”_

_Felix’s grin gripped his heart, asked it to stop, just for a moment, before sending it racing once more. “Not a whole lot. In fact,” he whispered, leaning down, “I’d wager_ nothing _is stopping me, except for your own words,_ Your Highness _.”_

And then he was back on this bus, wiping away another one of those ridiculous dreams from his eyes. He peeked over his hands just in time to see Felix shift uncomfortably in his seat, and Hyunjin had the nauseating notion that he’d somehow made the new kid feel uncomfortable by zoning out. But—there were still people in front of him, walking out single-file, so it couldn’t have been that long.

“Sorry,” Felix said, dropping his wrist, “I shouldn’t have—well, we’ve both done vaguely questionable thing.” He swallowed, scrambling to stand up. “Can I expect to see you in dance?”

As they started moving, Hyunjin asked over his shoulder, “You auditioned?”

Felix beamed. “Yup. You wouldn’t believe the grovelling and puppy dog eyes I had to pull out, but I managed to book a time slot.”

Hyunjin knew he looked shocked, but it was justified. “It’s stupid-difficult for seniors to get in,” he said. “You must be really good.”

He was endeared beyond explanation by the sheepish expression Felix wore. “Let’s not hype me up just to watch me fail, yeah?”

“Then don’t suck in second period.”

“Is that when dance is? How did you learn that? Fuck _me_ , did we already get our schedules—?”

Hyunjin stopped Felix with two hands on his shoulders, offering up an encouraging smile. “No. But senior dance has been in the same slot forever. So is senior wind, jazz, drama, musical theatre—”

Felix let out an embarrassed huff. “Okay, I get it. New kid shit. Need to learn that ropes and all that.”

There was genuine worry in his tone, and so Hyunjin decided to ease it as best he could. “Felix, you’ll be completely fine. How about you come find me at lunch, alright? I’ll be in the auditorium.” At Felix’s blank look, he added, “Second floor. I’m declaring you legally blind if you miss it.”

With a deep breath that straightened his posture and pushed back his shoulders, Felix nodded, light flickering in his eyes. “I got this.”

“You do,” Hyunjin agreed.

“Hey, Hyunjin!”

Whatever bubble had settled around them on the bus popped, and Hyunjin was reminded of all the people that knew who he was. Not all of them were Felix; not all of them could be given a squeaky-clean, new impression of him. There was a reputation, and a persona, and a list of people taller than the flagpole outside that thought they knew him.

He was relieved to see Felix had gone inside when he glanced back.

“Hey, man. How was summer?”

He listened in a way that allowed him to store the information without truly paying attention. There were only so many people he could actively talk to before his brain started dumping out files like a decades-old desktop.

His vision was splattered with constellations of freckles the whole time. For that, there would be always room in Hyunjin’s mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [curious cat!](https://curiouscat.qa/ahgaslayy) or [twitter!](https://twitter.com/svnsmayday)!


	3. Chapter 2 - Can't You See Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a few things to say:
> 
> Even though they're planned out, I'm trying not to publish chapters as soon as I'm finished writing them for the sake of continuity, so I'm sorry if they're a little slower from now on.  
> My ults, Got7, are officially leaving their company, which isn't wholly bad, but it has taken a bit of a toll on me.  
> I need to start taking my uni auditions seriously, because I can't procrastinate forever (unless I can 😈), so a lot of my free time is gonna be dedicated to that
> 
> I guess what I'm trying to do is apologize if things don't come out as fast as I'd like them to. I'm trying to balance quality, quantity, AND my sanity, and it's a little harder than it looks. So thank you for whatever patience you're going to exercise with me during the course of my writing this fic.

_This is completely fine. You’re not going to trip and somehow flash the school. You’re not going to suddenly forget how to speak English. You’re not you’re not you’re not._

_But,_ his mind continued, _what if you do? Your pants could tear open and you might just start monologuing in Korean. What then, dumbass?_

Felix knew for a _fact_ he didn’t know enough Korean to monologue, what with the bare necessities his family had drilled into his head, but the fear was real regardless.

“Are you . . . okay?”

 _Oh_ , he thought, _I’m actually back in Australia and the really pretty boy that gave me a weird vision was fake._

That . . . wasn’t as comforting as Felix had thought it would be.

“Do you wanna sit down?”

Felix let out a meek yelp as a hand brushed his shoulder, still seared from where Hyunjin had touched him. _Hyunjin, Hyunjin, the one that made me_ see things. He smacked a hand over his mouth as he turned to face the person who’d spoken to him.

 _This can’t be real,_ he thought. _High school students are supposed to be . . . the embodiment of “meh.” Where do these hot fuckers keep_ coming from _?_

His next thought: _Dimples! He has_ dimples _!_

“You’re really starting to freak me out, man . . .”

Right. Reality was a thing and Felix was stuck in it like a fly in honey. Tragic, really, but _c’est la vie_. “Sorry,” he squeezed out, “I’m uh—a little disoriented.”

“Ah,” said the adorably dimpled stranger, “you’re lost?”

 _In your eyes._ “Yes.”

“What room are you looking for?”

It was only because he’d memorized it in fear of embarrassing himself that Felix was able to rattle off, “205.”

The stranger's eyes glittered as he gestured up. “Looks like you’ve arrived.”

 _Oh, thank goodness._ Felix wasn’t sure he wanted to make a fifth lap of the second floor. He was certain that the first year at her locker knew how badly he’d been messing up, offering him up a pitying glance on his third and fourth passes of her.

“I take it you’re new here?”

“Would it be less mortifying if I said I’ve been a student here the whole time, only to suffer amnesia over the summer?”

The stranger’s laugh was just as pretty as his face, which should have been both impossible and illegal. “I’m Chris,” he said.

“Oh, shit, _wait_ —you’re Australian.” Again, as if to remind himself of it, _“You’re Australian._ ” He shooed away any thought of Hyunjin as he said it.

“You’ve just noticed,” Chris said without malice.

“I’m . . .” Felix hung his head. “Frazzled.”

Chris’ hand came up near Felix’s face, only to drop at the last second. As if he’d changed his mind about something. Was there something in his hair? Was Chris just going to let it _sit there?_

Canada was _weird_.

“Don’t worry, mate. You’ll be fine.”

“So people keep saying. There’s not a whole lotta proof to back you up.”

Chris smiled at him, warm and sure—and Felix . . . had seen it before. Surely. The curve of Chris’ eyes was as recognizable as the line of his own palm; the little puff of air he let out was more routine than wind greeting Felix every morning as he stepped out the door.

_Chan?_

“Come on,” Chris said, gesturing for him to walk in, “let’s get you settled.”

Felix was glad for the distraction of the classroom, because thoughts were bouncing around in his head like a dented Ping-Pong ball, and tracking it was making him dizzy. The tables were in clusters of three or four, a layout that Felix hadn’t seen in years.

“Mr. Wren is . . . unique in his methods,” Chris told him. “Something about the English language needing to be digested on the whole, not by the individual.”

Felix’s nervousness must have been clear on his face, because Chris was making that airy sound again, and Felix could only let himself get dragged off to the half-occupied cluster farthest from the teacher’s desk. “Don’t worry; nothing’s going to happen to you. He’s an easy marker, if you argue your case well.”

“Do you think I’ll get brownie points for bringing him food?”

Chris’ laugh was brighter this time as they took seats beside each other. “He’ll flunk you right then and there, don’t even try it.” He gestured at the boy across from them, who looked like he was planning the murder of his binder. “Ask Changbin how that went for him.”

Changbin, presumably the boy in front of him with the low-cut bangs and beautifully swept jaw, made a _tsk_ noise as he leaned his cheek against his hand. “How was I supposed to know that teachers didn’t appreciate apples? I was _fourteen_.”

“Common sense, man. Use it some time.”

His tone was completely harmless when he said, “My fist in your face is makin’ a whole lotta sense to me right now.”

Felix couldn’t fight back the snort he let out. He was just glad that Changbin seemed happy at having made him laugh. “I like you,” he said. “You won’t mock me for a completely reasonable mistake, will you?”

Felix let a sheepish smile cross over his face. “I have a box of macarons in my locker in case I need to make anyone like me.”

Changbin’s laugh was boisterous to say the least, eyes alight with amusement when they landed back on Felix. A complete opposite of Chan’s, though still comforting. “You caught a good one, Bang.”

 _Bang Chan._ Felix knew that name. But he certainly didn’t know Chris, and so he kept his mouth shut and forced his attention onto the board.

It was useless.

Felix sat there, national anthem and land acknowledgement having just finished, left to wonder how he’d fallen into such a strange place. The teacher was normal, the cheesy announcements were expected, and the distracted chatter of a couple students was welcome. But all Felix could think of was a glittering pair of eyes bracketed by longish ebony hair.

 _Hyunjin._ Hyunjin Hwang, Hwang Hyunjin, pretty and poised and lethal when he so wished. He remembered distinctly that Hyunjin had only offered his first name, yet his last came to Felix’s mind as if he’d been saying it all his life. _Hwang Hyunjin. Hyunjin Hwang._

“Should I be calling the hospital?” Chris whispered into his ear. “You seem like you’re having a tough time. I’ll send you my notes if you have to leave.”

Apart from the fact that leaving early on the first day felt heinous, Felix knew there was nothing wrong with him beyond scattered thoughts and the imprint of Hyunjin’s wrist in the palm of his hand. So, he shook his head, thanked Chris for the offer, and scribbled down the basic notes of what he’d need to know for the semester. It was then that he realized it had only taken two months for him to forget everything about the MLA format.

He circled that bullet point and put a series of question marks and sad faces around it.

“Changbin has a guide back at his place,” Chan said quietly. “Laminated it in ninth grade, all three pages. You won’t find better help.”

“Hubert has saved many an essay,” Changbin said, head lowering in a grateful nod.

“Changbin is also a freak that names his essay guides.”

“Fuck you.”

Felix giggled, despite the strange images still whirling around in his mind. Friends. He’d wanted to make friends this morning, and that wasn’t about to change because of some boy on the bus.

On the other hand . . . “Is there anything I should know about Hyunjin? Hyunjin Hwang?” It somehow made him feel better, to say his full name. _Hyunjin_ implied something familiar between them, and Felix was far from accepting that. “I have dance with him next.”

“Guy’s a total sweetheart,” Changbin offered with a shrug. “If you can name a club in this school, he’s either been in it, is currently in it, or has offered it help at some point. You’ll also never be smarter than him. Believe me, Jisung has tried.”

“Jisung tries a lot of things,” was all Chris said.

“And that’s why we love him. But that’s not the point of this conversation.” Changbin turned to Felix, eyes oddly intense. Felix kind of wanted to shrink to the size of an ant. “Why do you ask? He say something to you?”

“Well, yeah, but it was nothing bad. He was really nice. But . . . I could have sworn people were calling him a prince, or something?”

“That’s just what happens when you make yourself known in everything from band to tennis,” Changbin said. “People put you on a pedestal.”

He remembered the horrified look on Hyunjin’s face when he mentioned the practice rooms, and thought he wasn’t used to being so blunt. If it had been anyone else, Felix imagined he would have been horrified, put off, but Hyunjin was just so earnest that Felix had had a hard time blaming him for much of anything.

“If I may offer you a piece of advice, young Padawan—”

“You’ve never seen a Star Wars movie in your _life_ , Changbin—”

“—it’s that Hyunjin is on a different level from just about everyone. He’s nice, he’s generous, he’s quick in classes and sports, but he’s unreachable. Exclusive, and none of us have the pass.”

Chris frowned. “You know that’s not true.”

Changbin tilted his head, some sort of silent communication bouncing between the both of them. “It’s true enough.”

This was much too messy for a first day, and their whispers were starting to irritate the teacher. Each of them offered up an apologetic nod, but Felix knew his attention was shot for the foreseeable future. Dance was second period, Hyunjin had said. That was in an hour. What would Hyunjin say to him? Would he talk to Felix at all? Felix had left out of courtesy when Hyunjin’s friend had approached, but what if Hyunjin would have just shooed him away regardless?

 _I’ve done a terrible job, if you think I wouldn’t move a mountain to keep your eyes on me._ Those words had left his lips, in one way or another. It had been his voice, and he’d felt comfortable in himself when he’d—when he’d had Hyunjin _on the floor_.

His entire head was a mess. His temples were starting to ache, and his thoughts couldn’t stay in one coherent place. He wished, more than anything, that he could stop thinking, just until he got home and could chew on all of this as he baked something. That was always the best way to expel any sort of confusion in his head.

Soon the bell was sounding—how had it been over an hour?—and they were being sent off with the promise of gruelling homework in the near future. Both Changbin and Chan waved him goodbye, which was enough to fill his heart with a million ounces of warm syrup.

Felix looked down at the sheet in his hands and realized he should have asked them for help getting to his next class.

Going down the stairs was easy enough; all the 100s were on the first floor. But there was a strange hallway that led to _somewhere_ , and there signs all over the place indicating different numbers, none of them the one he sought. As if his headache hadn’t been bad enough, now there was the complication of just trying to get to class.

Someone had laid out this hallway poorly, because the staircase opened up into the intersection of two different hallways, clogging like a sickly artery and making Felix sick with anxiousness. _I’m going to miss the bell, and people are going to look at me weird, and then I’m going to have to find my way to the office for a late slip, and then I’ll_ really _wanna die._

The hallways were clearer about a minute to the bell, and Felix had yet to ask anyone for help. Now it was just a matter of dignity, and whether asking for help would strip him of it more so than being late.

“I’ve been sent to find you, fellow dancer.”

Felix nearly broke his spine trying to stand up straighter, spinning around with what had to be panic in his eyes to see another boy standing there. He was the textbook definition of unassuming, all slight features and soft hair.

“Chris told me you’d be lost. Told me to lead you back to class.”

“You know Chris?”

The boy grinned, gesturing for Felix to follow him as they walked. “He was my first friend here. One of the first few kids to not call me weird for my name. Which is Minho, by the way.”

“Felix.”

“I’ll make sure to tell Chris that,” Minho said, voice light and amused, “because he said he never got your name.”

The groan Felix let out was pained and mortified. “I knew I’d mess up.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much. He’s already soft on you—not that that takes much, the kind-hearted fucker.”

Felix saw that they’d walked into that odd hallway, which led to the opposite side of the floor. On the left wall, which had been hidden by the corner, was the room he’d been searching for.

“The architects for this floor were sadists,” Minho said, likely aiming for comfort. “We usually make sure every first-year knows the ins and outs of this hallway, but I imagine no one really tried to do that for you.”

“Not . . . really,” Felix confirmed.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind when I pawn you off to someone else for the afternoon. You probably have class with _someone_ I know, or one of my friends you’ve already met.”

Felix’s nose started to scream when they walked into the room, though it wasn’t wholly bad. He knew this scent. “Ah, feet.”

“It’s stuck in the walls, I swear. _Nothing_ gets rid of the smell.”

Felix chuckled as they slipped into the changing room, slinging his clothes bag off his shoulder. About two steps in, he was rooted to the floor.

Hyunjin Hwang, across the room, rising from his stretching position and throwing his head back, shirt loose enough to show off the peaks of his collarbones.

“ _Fuck my life_ ,” Felix muttered.

Hyunjin saw him—hopefully he didn’t _hear him_ —and smiled wide. “Felix! You made it alright.”

“Barely.”

Hyunjin was already beautiful, by more than teenage-boy standards, but that didn’t even come close to how . . . _radiant_ he was when he laughed. His eyes flitted over Felix’s head to Minho. “Hey, Minho.”

“I’m humbled to be in your presence, Your Highness.”

 _In fact, I’d wager_ nothing _is stopping me, except for your words,_ Your Highness _._ Felix frantically pushed away the not-memory.

Hyunjin deflated a little. “How many times do I have to _beg you_ to not call me that?”

“You have a few hundred to go.”

Hyunjin looked at Felix, saddened and panicked, before forcing himself into neutrality and walking out of the changing room. Minho, already in his clothes, walked back out with a small nod to Felix.

Felix knew what to do. Or, at least, what he wanted to do. After he was changed, he walked over to Hyunjin and did his own stretches, sat on the floor with his legs splayed out. “So.”

Hyunjin just chewed on his lip.

“Look,” Felix started again, keeping his voice soft, “I imagine you don’t like the whole prince thing.”

“I never said that. People admire me. It’s a privilege.”

“I’m going to ignore the fact that it sounds like you’re reciting a eulogy. Hyunjin, you don’t think I think any less of you because you’re _popular_ , right?”

Hyunjin just bent his head toward his chest.

“Wasn’t it you that told me it wasn’t like the movies? So you’re not a villain for having people like you.”

He looked up, at that, but the smile he wore was dented and dull. “Yeah. You’re right.”

_Are we going to talk about the thing that definitely shouldn’t have happened? Did you even see it? Can you make me feel less insane? Please?_

The teacher walked in then, saying, “Good, you’re all prepped. None of you are new at this, so I’m going to get a little mean.”

She went off on a little spiel about how this was the standard for twelfth graders, but all Felix heard was, _This is another seventy-five minutes where you’re going to stew in your own thoughts with no answers, about anything._

But at least he got to dance, and that was distraction enough to make the not-memories fade into a dull discomfort in his heart.

It would have to do.


	4. Chapter 3 - Do You Remember Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told y'all Hyunjin was Sad(TM) in the tags, so be prepared

The auditorium was something of a home to Hyunjin. His dancing was always limited to the first floor, where the studios were, but the auditorium . . . It was big, full of potential that couldn’t quite fit into just one person. A team was needed to bring a stage to life, and Hyunjin admired that. Sought it, almost.

But it would never be his.

Eating on the cushioned audience seats was strictly forbidden, but few people ever listened. There was talk of refurbishing them before next year. Not that it mattered, seeing as Hyunjin would be long gone by then. And so he looked down at the aged, eerily yellow foam and said, “If I stain you, I’m sorry, but not really.”

The drama teacher was nowhere in sight. In fact, no one had set foot in the auditorium since Hyunjin had. It was nice.

And then it wasn’t, because he began to realize how small he was, in this big space with a hundred raised seats and floor room for a hundred more, a stage that could hold a few classes of students and stand strong. A resilient space that had existed for over a hundred years.

Hyunjin was nothing compared to it. Not an angel, not a prince.

 _Your Highness_. Why did people keep calling him that? He was a boy with a shit-load of extracurriculars under his belt. He had good grades. He was nice. But he was also too loud, and cried at the concept of dogs being lonely, and practiced every piece he performed until his feet bled because he knew he had to impress himself more than anyone. He had to make himself gasp, because than everyone was guaranteed to do the same.

What he was slowly starting to learn, however, was that you could never outmaneuver your reflection.

He held up the metal lid of his lunch container up to his face. Looked at the warped version of himself, like he was looking into a pond after running a hand through it. He seemed sickly like this, not himself. He popped open his mouth, snarled, watched his reflection do the same. Every time he moved, he was mirrored. Not a surprise. What had he expected, really? Something different?

The version of himself that had existed under a suit-clad Felix?

Even using Felix’s name felt wrong, because it hadn’t truly been him. It couldn’t have been. Just as Hyunjin had been only partially himself, surely the same would apply to Felix—only if Hyunjin wasn’t making up ridiculous scenarios with the first friendly face he saw on the bus. What he couldn’t ignore, however, was how _happy_ he’d been in that pseudo-vision. His chest had felt light, head going dizzy at Felix’s words.

There was a crash in the wings of the stage, and Hyunjin’s loneliness was shattered. He was up and out of his seat in a heartbeat, running to the stage. He vaulted over the ledge, angry that he hadn’t accounted for the sheer height of the thing as he fumbled on the edge, before he jogged over to where the crash had started.

What he saw was amusing, if a little concerning; he’d recognized the voice in a distant way, one he’d heard in offices of various arts’ teachers to double check the tasks they’d assigned him outside of coursework. What Hyunjin had never been given was a face to place to the voice. Now he had it.

But that wasn’t important. “Are you all right?”

The boy sighed as if he’d just learned the world was meaningless. “Maybe.”

Hyunjin smiled, holding out a hand. “Here.”

When the boy took his hand to rise, Hyunjin’s reality came apart at the seams.

 _“You know, I’m starting to get a little concerned, Jeongin.” Hyunjin tossed aside his practice sword with a grin, offering Jeongin a helping hand. “I shouldn’t be better in combat than my_ guard. _”_

_Jeongin was petulant, planting both his pals in the grass and turning is face away. “I don’t take help from sore winners.”_

_True to form, Hyunjin was convinced anything Jeongin could do, he could do better; he stepped into the guard’s face, bent at the waist, pouting at Jeongin until a small crack appeared in his façade. Another victory._

_“I’m amendable to a consolation prize,” Jeongin said softly. He put a hand out, silently asking for help._

_It was reflex, to pull Jeongin up to his feet. “And what might that be?” Hyunjin whispered, coy and charged with residual adrenaline._

_Jeongin tilted his head up the fraction of an inch he needed to ghost his lips along Hyunjin’s as he said, “I was hoping the victor would decide. A king’s pick of the harvest, if you will.”_

_Hyunjin couldn’t help but frown at that. “You know I’d never—”_

_Jeongin pressed his palm to Hyunjin’s mouth, filling whatever space had remained between their lips. “Your Majesty, you just won a match against one of your most skilled guards. I would like to show you how proud I am of you, for such a feat. I’d love it, in fact. So don’t think I’m doing this out of any sense of duty.” Jeongin kissed the back of his own hand, as if to show Hyunjin what he’d forsaken by opening his mouth. “Now, if you don’t_ want to _. . .”_

_“Wait, no—”_

_Jeongin stepped away, grin plastered on his face. “Chase me.”_

_“You’re joking.”_

_“I would never! You don’t want to privilege of a king, and you won’t get it. So, come chase me. If you succeed, then I’ll believe you’ve earned your reward.”_

_Hyunjin didn’t think twice before taking off after his youngest guard._

His own world bled back into his sightline, miserable blacks and dark reds compared the open field he’d just been standing in. Hyunjin braced a hand against the pillar next to him, head swimming and thoughts pulled apart like a soggy blanket. Jeongin looked no better, but Hyunjin was almost blind to him, nearly consumed with worry about how he _knew_ this boy’s name; how he’d magically come to think it, know it to be true, without ever having heard it from Jeongin’s lips.

“Hyunjin?”

 _He sounds like he knows me_ , Hyunjin thought in a panic, _but he doesn’t. He_ can’t.

Jeongin called out for him one more time as he leapt off the stage, but Hyunjin knew he couldn’t stay. He’d abandoned his lunch, which was a tragedy in and of itself. Probably he would have to abuse his status at the school’s “prince” to get away with his treason.

He would hate himself for it if he weren’t distracted with the person who just walked into the auditorium.

“Felix,” he said, breathy and weird even to his own ears.

Felix didn’t seem to mind, though his eyes were wide with surprise. “Hi! This is the auditorium, isn’t it? I’m not legally blind?”

Felix's voice worked ike a balm to the heart. Hyunjin felt himself calm down enough to say, “Yeah, it is.” He stepped aside to let Felix in. “It’s pretty empty now though, so it might seem intimidating.”

“Maybe,” Felix sighed, “but don’t you love that? The _possibility_ of it?” Before Hyunjin could spiral again, Felix turned around, showcasing the little box in his hands. “Here! Macarons. Pistachio and rose, if that’s your thing.”

Hyunjin was taken back to a stroll with his parents, with quieted alleys and lovingly carved stone. A quieter part of a city that smelled like honey and woodsmoke. One parent’s hand in each of his. “They sound delicious,” he whispered.

“Sorry?”

Hyunjin shook off the nostalgia, making a point to peak into the small box of macarons this time. “They sound delicious,” he repeated. “How long did it take you?”

“About 3 hours? But that’s pretty standard. Good time, actually, considering all the piping.”

Hyunjin was no baker—his culinary skillset was limited to not overcooking meat and creating a handful of side dishes—but he knew that the consistent sizing took skill; the lattice work on each macaron’s top required patience.

“Felix, they’re beautiful.”

Felix’s cheeks went pink, like the roses centred on Hyunjin’s dining room table. It was then that the rustling from backstage began anew. Felix perked up at the sound, shuffling over until he could peer around the curtains at Jeongin. “Oh! Hi. Did you want one?”

“Uh, no that’s okay—I mean, I’m sure they’re delicious, but— Um.”

Felix’s smile was both dialed back and comforting in the one motion of his lips. “Well, I certainly can’t shove them down poor Hyunjin’s throat. I think his teeth would rot on the spot. I’d have a very angry dentist on the other end of a phone call.”

“He’d just cut his losses and sand down my teeth,” Hyunjin teased, as if any jokes would ease what had just happened backstage.

Jeongin stepped forward until he was fully visible to both Felix and Hyunjin, hands wringing themselves together as he said, “If you’re sure.”

Felix nodded passionately. “Hundred-ten percent.” He turned to Hyunjin, plucking a macaron from the box and holding it out to him. As their hands neared, however, they both flinched, sending the treat crashing to the floor with a sad crunch.

“Ah, sorry!” Felix fussed. “Man, that was my prettiest one, too.”

“They’re all gorgeous,” Jeongin murmurs, probably meaning to stay unheard. Felix, busy with his fallen solider as he was, didn’t hear him—but Hyunjin had, and the thought that arose as a result was petrifying.

_He’s always sweetest when we least expect it._

The next two minutes passed by in streaks and blurs, with Hyunjin inclining his head when a macaron was plopped into his had. He promised to savour it, let Felix know what he thought in class tomorrow, before booking it out of the aud.

He still cradled the macaron to his chest as he ran out onto the lot and into the quiet streets.

o.O.o

Hyunjin thought he made a rather handsome shot for a 2000s indie music video, sat atop a graffitied building with his legs handling over the side, head soaring higher than the clouds.

_Of course you would. What else are you for if not that face of yours?_

He chucked a pebble off the side like that would somehow make it less true.

The bag beside him wasn’t soft by any means; even so, he moved to lie down on it, taking a moment or three to adjust himself as best he could. The sky was bottomless, or topless—he’d never quite managed to figure out where he stood; if he was truly up there, with the clouds, or if everyone had forgotten that they were all riding a current to hell, too dazed to realize that he was closest to the brimstone.

“I watch _way_ too much TV,” he sighed. “Who the fuck mentions _brimstone_ anymore?”

 _I do_ , he realized, _because it feels like I’m burning_.

This building was more home than home, now. He’d painted it with his own blood, or the closest he could get to it, and figured that was as good a claim as any when no one really owned anything on the Crown’s land.

 _What do you own, Hyunjin?_ His mother had asked him that when they’d been walking the edge of the CN Tower. Before she’d slowly become someone else. Before Hyunjin had realized he barely had a mother at all. _What will you make yours?_

Nothing. All of nothing. _Happy now, Mom? I own nothing, I want nothing, because nothing wants to be mine._

How true was that? He didn’t know. But if he were to start laughing till his sides hurt, people would call him crazy; if he started yelling because he’d finally snapped, given into the stress of exams, they’d call him unstable; if he turned away, hurt, because someone had said something he’d taken much too close to heart, they’d call him weak. They loved him just as well as a person loved the stars. It was meaningless. They loved the shimmer, the multitude, but no one would ever dare get close.

After all, no one wanted to get burned.

“Okay!” he shouted, sitting up with hands scrabbling at his own hair. “No more of that. Bad brain, _bad_.”

If his brain were its own sentient being, it would be fuming at him, turned away and grumbling. Well, _too bad_. Hyunjin had come here with plans, and fuck if he wasn’t going to execute them. He swiped the bag off the ground and made for the ledge, easily finding the ladder that dropped him down a level. He would get flambéed if someone were to see him, but he’d had over three years to master this secrecy. Zipping open the duffel bag was like opening curtains to bathe in the sun first thing in the morning: calming, ritualistic, promising.

Hyunjin took a can out of the bag and let his hands work.

Most of the time, he let his mind go dull when he painted. It was easy to let his hands talk for him, leave a message in dripping blacks and sweeping blues to someone who might understand his thoughts better than he did. This time . . . it was more than just hand to ink to wall. It was a transcript of a memory, in hissing pigment instead of stark words.

It was his past, translated into something that would perhaps hurt less to view than it did to remember.

As he pushed his arms up and out, creating something bigger, brighter, more real than he could ever be, something fell out of his pocket and onto his duffel bag with an unassuming _pat_.

The macaron Felix had so happily given him.

 _Shit_.

Hyunjin dropped his cans to the ground as he knelt towards the pastry, careful to not drop them from too high. He was glad that his hands had yet to take on that much ink, because that meant he was allowed to hold the macaron like a bird that could easily be spooked away. Carefully. Reverently.

Someone’s hand had made this. Delicate like lace, lighter than euphoria. _Felix_ had made this. Felix, who, despite what Hyunjin wanted, was familiar to him just as the smudged mirrors of the dance studios were.

Hyunjin didn’t take a bite from the macaron just yet. Instead, he placed it in his jacket pocket, zipped it up after making sure the treat was the only resident of that pocket, and set to creating a scene that was less muddled than before. Cool skyscrapers, mountains in the distances, greens and comforting browns that looked as this memory smelled.

Two grand buildings, cradling a small forest between them.

But there was something about the forest, that didn’t fit quite right. It looked dull. How mortifying, considering that buildings were supposed to be just that—the _opposite_ of the forest.

Hyunjin turned back to his bag. Cocked his head.

_Got it._

He took the can of white and prayed it into his hand, letting the paint pool in his palm. Then, he flicked it against the forest, giddy when he felt his heart settle.

 _Perfect_.

But the forest meant rides on horseback, archery lessons from a boy with lean arms and an inferno behind his eyes.

The forest meant confusion, and Hyunjin had had enough of that for now.

As if it were as a sign of mercy, his mother called him, telling him that she needed his help with one task or another. Hyunjin agreed. That was the default. He didn’t mind. He didn’t know enough to mind anymore.

Before he left, he stared into the forest with unseeing eyes, and dug into a delicacy that was made with more love and care than Hyunjin could collect from all his memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I'm a heartbroken theatre student? 
> 
> Anyway! Come yell at me on [curious cat!](https://curiouscat.qa/ahgaslayy) or [twitter!](https://twitter.com/svnsmayday)


	5. INTERLUDE: Memories Come Find Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: I'm pulling almost all these chapter titles from songs that fit this fic (which are all in a playlist I'll drop eventually)

“He’s going to get himself in trouble.”

Felix bent his head back as much as he could, but Minho’s chest was proving a problem. As if to make up for his troubles, Minho raked a hand through his hair, which was a shock of platinum from a spell one of his loves had miscast a week prior. “He was going to cause trouble no matter what we said; accompanying him was the only way to ensure his safety.”

A lulling silence fell over them as they watched Hyunjin consume the stage. That was the only way to describe the way he moved, the way no inch of wood went untouched by his presence. He filled up the space as if every move made him grander, stronger— _invincible_.

“He’s beautiful all the time,” Minho said quietly, “but he’s breathtaking like this.”

It was true; Hyunjin had turned from flesh and bone to lines and song, floating despite his mortality and human despite his grace. If they could bore a hole to the centre of their world and look inside it, he imagined it would burn just like Hyunjin did.

“If his court learns where we’ve been taking him . . .”

“Then we’ll deal with it,” Minho promised. “But look how happy he is.” His hands tightened over Felix’s. “I couldn’t take that away from him any more than the gods could.”

Neither of them could speak as Hyunjin neared the end of his performance, eyes tracing his every twitch as he leapt and crashed in a way that was contained and painful in the same breath. As he unfurled, there was a small blossom in his hands—a little trick he’d surely begged off of Jeongin—whose petals he littered with gentle kisses.

The reverie broke when he glided over to them, falling down onto his shins as he presented the flower to them. It broke up into little butterflies, startling them both. They pressed kisses to their cheeks and nose before settling into their hair and dissolving into little drops of warm magic.

“I’ve been practicing that for a while.” Hyunjin hung his head, bashful in the cheeks. “None of you have ever denied me a thing unless it meant something to my safety. And I know this . . . is not ideal, but you two do it anyway, and I know it’s to make me happy. So . . . I wanted to thank you. Somehow. Because I don’t think a series of words could ever tell you how much it means to me to have you here, and to have you _want_ to be here.”

His chest was still shaking with the effort to regain his breath, but this Hyunjin, tender and spluttering after burning brighter than the stars, was probably Felix’s favourite. “Hyunjin,” he said, carefully, so as not to abuse the privilege before it was back to formality and titles, “you know you mean the world to us.”

“That doesn’t change what I think,” Hyunjin said, always stubborn and always too earnest to incur much of their wrath. “You two—” He looked away, eyes bright. “I would be so much more miserable without you. Bringing me here, keeping me safe, that’s just . . . bonus. And I appreciate you more than you could ever know for it.”

“You’re our king,” Minho said simply. “Anything to make you happy is worth its price.”

Hyunjin’s shoulders slumped. “Yes. I suppose that’s true.”

“I said ‘ _our king_ ,’ Hyunjin, not ‘ _the_ king.’ Don’t think I’m risking my neck like this because you’re the ruler of my land. I’m here because I love you.”

The pink that had coloured Hyunjin’s cheeks from exertion burned and burned until he was crimson. “ _Minho_ ,” he groaned, putting his face in his hands. He peeked out from between his fingers to say, “You got that from Seungmin, you cheesy _bastard_. He’s always saying those things during our archery lessons, and I can never—”

Felix lurched forward to drag Hyunjin close to him, joints knocking and breath being pushed out of one or all of them. But soon they settled, and soon it was just a world of heartbeats and song that had never really existed; love and promise that never really needed to be said.

o.O.o

It was a week later, outside the walls of the theatre. A show had been cancelled. Hundreds of miserable audience members were in the area, milling about. The perfect cover, just as an empty theatre had always been.

A description of the king had gotten out—pretty blond hair, slight features, stunning to any passerby. Few paid it mind; the king was little more than myth. A phantom who bore the crown. Some loved the untouchable sense of power. Others wanted it gone.

Hyunjin was in the theatre. The others were outside, at each entrance, in twos or threes.

Felix had never gotten a chance to change his hair back.

Hyunjin walked out of the theatre when he heard screams— _Please, no, please, no no no_ no _—_ heart wild in his chest.

Felix, with an arrow to the throat.

After that it was only blood staining his vision, because there was so _much of it_ , just enough for seven hearts to have stopped beating.

The king was put under lockdown after that. He didn't want to leave his chambers regardless.

Not three days later, his heart caved in on itself. The phantom king dissolved, crown clattering to the floor. Wine was nothing but a stain without a chalice.

Love was as good a double-edged sword as any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my finger slipped
> 
> Come yell at me on [curious cat!](https://curiouscat.qa/ahgaslayy) or [twitter!](https://twitter.com/svnsmayday)


	6. Chapter 4 - Passing Delusions

“Innie? Are you okay?”

Lunch break had passed unceremoniously for Seungmin; he’d nibbled on his lunch while scribbling down a melody stuck in his brain like a bur on Velcro, holed up in one of the practice rooms as he usually was. He kept his lunch in the shadows as to avoid a scolding, even if he knew the music teachers were soft on him. Such was the blessing of being one of the better players.

Jeongin’s absence wasn’t _really_ strange; he’d been a part of the school’s Light and Sound crew since freshman year. Even if the club hadn’t started back up yet, the Drama Head had sought him out for an extra hand to get things rolling for the freshmen. Though Jeongin was a terror on a good day, he would never refuse someone’s genuine call for help.

Which left Seungmin here, staring at his best friend, who looked seven different types of dismayed.

“I’m fine,” Jeongin said, which was complete bullshit as far as Seungmin was concerned.

“You’ll be okay to walk to vocal?”

Jeongin gave him a smile at that, shrugging. “Sometimes I’d rather lick this floor than attend, but.” Another shrug.

“I still think you should have stuck with the instrumental stream.”

“And I think you should have gone vocal. We can’t have this conversation again.”

“Sure,” Seungmin said, fighting back a smile, “but we’re going to anyway.”

“Hell yeah we are.”

The smile they shared was clear in its message: It didn’t _really_ matter, because Jeongin was in the extracurricular band, and Seungmin was in choir. They saw each other more than most. This conversation was more for tradition’s sake than anything else.

“Hey, ’Min?”

He waited for Jeongin to continue, fiddling with the drawstrings if his hoodie as he did so. It wasn't often that Jeongin looked so serious, and it was enough to make Seungmin think twice about teasing him for his hesitation. 

"You said you get déjà vu a lot, right? Is there . . . any way to make it stop?"

“Jeongin,” Seungmin said, more serious this time around, “are you _sure_ you’re okay?” _Don’t push him, don’t push him_ —

“Yeah, I promise, it’s just . . . whatever I felt was really vivid. That’s all.”

 _That’s not déjà_ _vu,_ Seungmin wanted to say.

“Promise to text me if you need me?”

Jeongin, apparently, was fed up with their morbid voices. “This room may as well be made of metal, ’Min. There’s no way you’re getting a text if I send one.”

“Oh well. Send one anyway.”

“Bossy.”

“You signed up for this.”

Jeongin’s eyes became gentler. “I did.”

Then he turned to the doors, and Seungmin was left to assemble his flute before the bell went off. _You’re seniors_ , their teacher would say, _you shouldn’t need a week to “get back into the flow of things.”_

“Chris!”

Seungmin perked up even though he hadn’t been called. He hadn’t known Chris was in the room, but, surely enough, he was scurrying over to where the teacher had called him. “Yes?”

Seungmin wanted to say he knew Chris in the way most people in the school knew each other; distantly in most ways, well in others. _I don’t know his birthday or his favourite food, but I know how he cracks jokes to make new kids feel less weird. He’s a good guy! You should talk to him._

Except that that would be a complete lie. Because Seungmin knew what Chris would taste like if they kissed; how profusely he’d bleed with a bullet to his side; how hard it was for him to dole out all the love that lived in his heart.

“Déjà vu” was a little bit of an understatement.

Hoping to fight off the incoming headache, Seungmin watched his tuner flutter as he played a long tone. It was a choreographed danc: pulling his flute away, sliding out the neck so there was only a small ring of pale silver showing, playing another note. He was lucky enough to nail it on the second try, but that meant he could only sit and wait with his flute poised beneath his lips as he strained to hear Chris’ voice. It did him about as much good as beating against the timpani when the covers were still on.

When Chris walked back out of the small music office, their eyes met. Suddenly the flute in Seungmin’s hands was blazing, the air around him chilly. _Chan_. Seungmin was desperate for a distraction; he tried to play another long tone, because _lung capacity_ or whatever, but his breath failed him entirely when Chris braced his arms on the back of Seungmin’s chair.

“You know, these chairs are really uncomfortable.”

“Alright, percussionist asshole, no one asked.”

The bells at the back of the room were nothing compared to Chris’ laugh. “You _could_ become a percussionist asshole if you so wished.”

“The double bass and I are frenemies. Currently we’re working through the _enemy_ part of our relationship.”

Chris lowered his voice, leaned forward, stole whatever breathable air was in the room. “Do you remember how, sometimes, we’d sneak into some abandoned tower or warehouse and just—sing?”

It was one of his fonder collection of memories. Almost never the same setting, under vastly different circumstances, but always the same happiness that came from music. Seungmin let himself grin stupidly bright. “Technically, you’ve never really heard me sing.”

“I didn’t know you were a man of technicality.”

“I’m not,” Seungmin agreed, “not like you are, at least.” He craned his head back to smile at Chris. “But you knew that.”

Chris’ cheeks went pink before he sped over to the piano, just barely making it onto the bench before the teacher walked in. _Ah,_ Seungmin thought, _he must have been asked to play for class._

Jisung tore through the doors a second later, wearing one of his beaming smiles that made scolding him impossible. “Sorry, sorry!”

The teacher only rolled her eyes, the sort of motion that said, _Get to your seat before I make you trek to the office_. Jisung took the silent cue for what it was and set himself up in front of the timpani in the back.

Seungmin looked away before he risked eye contact with him. Not everyone knew him like Chan did; not everyone would understand why he was looking at them like they were lost to the world.

“I was talking to Mr. Carter earlier,” the alto behind him whispered, “and apparently Hyunjin isn’t going to be auditioning for the lead role this year.”

“What?” Seungmin recognized this voice to be one of the bass clarinets. “How come?”

“Tired of having it handed to him I guess.”

The ugly, discordant noise to come from the piano was no accident, no matter how profusely Chris apologized and lightly he laughed. Seungmin could hear the angered edge to his voice. Knew that Chris was never so careless with any instrument as to strike a chord so harshly.

Seungmin would have done the same.

“Big words for the girl that swaps parts to get Alto 1.”

Seungmin put all his energy into pursing his lips, staying in position, even if he wanted to laugh until his sides ached; of course _Jisung_ would have the balls to defend someone he hardly knew. _Of course it’s Jisung,_ he thought, much more softly this time.

“No one asked you, Peter!”

It was so jarring, to see Jisung respond to that name. _What’s wrong with me? Last year I was doing the same thing._

But it was different now. Even if Jisung didn’t know it.

Seungmin was content to lose his focus as his fingers danced along the length of his flute.

o.O.o

When Seungmin realized his world was so much bigger than just this one, he was trying to forget his sixteenth birthday.

He’d just started eleventh grade, when academics _really_ started to matter and the eyes of many a university tracked your every move. Both his parents were trapped at work as the clock neared midnight on the nineteenth, and the silence was this close to killing him. He’d never been the sort for parties—few of the people he knew were—but that didn’t make the loneliness any less of a beast.

So he left the house and walked, and walked.

And walked.

There wasn’t really a plan in place. “Get out of the house” had been step one, but the rest hadn’t mattered in the moment.

He didn’t feel any less lonely, looking up at stars that were choked out by man-made light. Because even if he could see them . . .

“. . . it wouldn’t matter.” No one could touch the stars, let alone him.

He came to a stop when he saw a boy hunched over on the curb, elbows to knees and head in his hands. Over the dull _woosh_ of passing cars and the weak wind, he heard a ragged voice. “I can’t do this to them. I can’t. They’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

As if knocked from a trance, the boy stood up, dusted off his apron and headed back into the shop, which Seungmin now recognized as his dad’s favourite local bakery.

 _Bakery_. Might as well end his pathetic night with an equally pathetic bang.

When Seungmin walked into the bakery, he didn’t see the boy from outside, but that didn’t matter; Seungmin was in here for one thing and one thing only.

“Hi,” he said softly, “you wouldn’t happen to have any cupcakes left, would you?”

“Um . . . I’ll see if there are any hanging around in the back. Would you mind waiting a little bit?”

“Ah. Uh. No, I don’t mind. I’ll be right outside.”

 _Why are you so close to crying over a goddamn_ cupcake _? So what if there’s none left? You didn’t have a cupcake a minute ago, and it’s not going to matter if you don’t have one in the next minute either._

“Still,” he whispered as he sat on the curb, “a cupcake would be nice.”

There was nothing he could have done to hold back the couple of tears that slid down his cheeks.

The dinging of the windchimes was barely discernable from the sound of his blood in his ears—then a voice, gentle and calming. “Hey. ’s it your birthday?”

“N—” Seungmin checked his phone. “Oh. Yeah. Now it is, I guess.”

Someone sat beside him. Seungmin raised his head and saw that it was the boy from the curb. There was a beautifully decorated cupcake in his hands, cherry stuck in the top of the icing like a gem. When the boy whipped out a small torch to light it, Seungmin saw that it was just a candle shaped like a cherry, which was more than enough to make him crack a smile. _How cute._

“I’m going to sing you happy birthday,” the boy said, voice affected by some accent that Seungmin would name when he was less miserable, “and you’re going to pretend it’s not the most awkward thing either of us has ever experienced.”

“So long as we agree on how terrible the idea is, go ahead.”

The first few words of the song were marred by the boy’s laughter, cupcake glowing between them. Soon enough it was his beautiful voice rising up and up, above the traffic, above the blood in his ears, high enough to touch the stars that Seungmin now saw with a breathtaking clarity. The cheery tune came to a close; the boy handed him the cupcake—

And Seungmin’s world nearly burst into light, right then and there. _Chan’s always at his best when he sings,_ was his only coherent thought _._

Seungmin was thrown off by his own mind. “Who the fuck is Chan?”

The song had ended, but the boy’s choking was still audible. Seungmin eyed him warily, but then—

“Oh.”

“ _Technically_ ,” the boy said, “the name is Chris. But it—yeah. I don’t—um.”

“How about,” Seungmin offered, sensing panic from the boy across from him, “we split this cupcake, and you tell me what the fuck just happened.” He looked down at the treat. “Wait, no, I didn’t pay for this.”

“I did,” Chris blurted. “I. Um. Man, you’re gonna think I’m a freak.”

“Hardly.”

“I . . . _knew_ it was your birthday today. ’s why there’s a cherry candle.”

“My favourite flavour of candy,” Seungmin murmured. “Well. Now you double-owe me an explanation.”

“Technically, I think you’re the one who owes me things.”

“Technically this, technically that, what about you _isn’t_ technical?” Seungmin shook his head wildly. “The word’s starting to lose meaning. I say we cut into the cupcake.”

More words itched at his throat as Chris pulled out a plastic knife from his apron. “Oh, and . . . Chan?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you for the singing. Awkwardness or not.”

Seungmin thought that, just maybe, the stars had come to greet _him_ in the form of Chris’ smile.

Their night passed seamlessly, with Chris popping back inside to do some minor cleaning and close up the shop. What Seungmin took away from the whole thing: Fate was real, Hyunjin was more than the popular guy, and Chris—Chan? He was really unclear on the name thing—was the only one that _really_ knew everything. Walking home allowed him to chew through all these facts at different rates, some of them easier to digest than others. There was one other thing Chan had said, which still hung around in Seungmin’s mind like a fluttering butterfly.

 _No one deserves to know what I know. It’s not worth the burden. Sometimes I think about making sure it stays that way._ He’d turned to Seungmin with a woeful smile. _Guess I ruined that, huh?_

Seungmin wasn’t sure the whole thing hadn’t been a dream as he crashed into his bed.

When he woke up with the gross, old taste of cherry icing on his tongue, he realized it had been all too real. Chris’ words were still there, though they slowly faded as he went about his morning routine.

o.O.o

Hindsight was 20/20. Seungmin should have taken Chris more literally. But he hadn’t.

Perhaps things would have gone differently if he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss band :((
> 
> Come yell at me on [curious cat!](https://curiouscat.qa/ahgaslayy) or [twitter!](https://twitter.com/svnsmayday)


	7. Chapter 5 - (As Long As I Can Breathe) I Can’t Let Go of You Again

**The Three Muska-fools**

**han.ji:** physics is the weakest link

 **bangbang_intotheroom** : ur the one who chose to take it

 **han.ji** : you know i cant be trusted to make my own decisions in life

 **han.ji** : that’s why you get my lunch for me :3

 **bangbang_intotheroom** : i mean ur not hard to please when it comes to food

 **han.ji** : any food that comes from you is good food!

 **deep.blue.seo** : Hey ji, good to know you’re so warm <3

 **han.ji** : ??

 **deep.blue.seo** : I mean Chan’s ass must be cozy for you to crawl so far up it all the time

 **bangbang_intotheroom** : DFGPIJFNPQEOFQ????>T(FJ#IPM

 **han.ji** : i’m going to take your phone away I swear to god.

 **deep.blue.seo** : Shouldn’t you be trying to pass in physics?

 **han.ji** : changbin when i find you………

 **deap.blue.seo:** I’m in the desk next to you ._.

 **deep.blue.seo:** Use those eyes of yours <33

 **bangbang_intotheroom** : jisung know that i love getting u ur lunches

 **han.ji:** good to know someone appreciates me!

 **deep.blue.seo** : I’m sorry, WHO is wearing my hoodie right now?

Damn Changbin for always being right. Deciding to leave him on “read” to make him think about what he’d done, Jisung pocketed his phone and proceeded to pay attention to what the teacher was scribbling across the whiteboard.

His attempt to be a half-decent student was thwarted the second his phone screen lit up with another message.

 **bangbang_intotheroom** : what he means is that u look cute and that he loves when you ask for his clothes

 **deep.blue.seo** : That is absolutely NOT what I mean

Jisung couldn’t resist responding.

 **han.ji:** 형 :(( 날 사랑하지 않니?

 **deep.blue.seo** : NOT THE KOREAN, FUCK YOU

 **han.ji** : 형 :((((

Jisung thought he heard Chan laugh from somewhere in the back of the room, but a cough covered it up easily enough.

 **han.ji** : 찬형, 날 살려줘!!

 **han.ji:** 빈이는 날 사랑하지 않아 !!

 **deep.blue.seo** : I swear he does it to torment me

 **bangbang_intotheroom:** ur fault for saying u like his korean

 **deep.blue.seo:** Now whose side are you on?

 **deep.blue.seo** : Also where the fuck did my honorific go

 **deep.blue.seo** : Give it back.

 **han.ji;** <33

 **deep.blue.seo** : .

 **han.ji** : HA

 **han.ji** : not fun receiving that ugly little heart now is it!

 **bangbang_intotheroom** : do i need to get u 2 a room

 **han.ji** : only if you’re joining ;)

 **deep.blue.seo** : Hey, Chan, you think we’d get away with murder?

 **bangbang_intotheroom** : ji, what??

 **bangbang_intotheroom** : bin, u have v odd ways of showing affection

 **deep.blue.seo** : Jisung Han is my sworn enemy I have no idea what you’re talking about

 **han.ji** : :(

 **deep.blue.seo** : GOD FINE I love you, now will you pay attention?

Jisung scribbled down formulas with a speed he hadn’t utilized since elementary dodgeball. Changbin huffed from beside him, though it was far from annoyed. Eventually the teacher set down his marker and announced that he’d finished for the day, because _I’ll have five more months to torment you_.

Fun.

Jisung pulled out his phone to kill the ten minutes left in class.

 **Changbin** 🗡🌸

 **han.ji:** hey, binnie, why didn’t you audition for the program this year?

 **deep.blue.seo** : You mean apart from the fact that I’m not allowed?

 **han.ji:** you’re better than most of the kids in the program…  
there’s no way you would have been turned away if you asked

 **han.ji:** besides there are some seniors who got in their last year

 **deep.blue.seo** : No thanks.

 **deep.blue.seo** : Besides, my parents wouldn’t let me.

 **han.ji:** I’ll beat them up, the fuck >:[

 **deep.blue.seo** : Please don’t

 **deep.blue.seo** : Listen, I still get to go to band, right?

 **han.ji:** yeah but

 **han.ji:** music class

 **han.ji:** you’d be amazing at it

 **deep.blue.seo:** You saying I need credits to be a musician?

Jisung barely withheld a sigh. Texting was easily the least conducive way to have a conversation; how was he supposed to know if Changbin was mad or not?

 **deep.blue.seo:** That’s not a shot at you, Sungie.

 **deep.blue.seo:** I just know that there’s more to the whole thing  
than getting my six arts credits.

 **deep.blue.seo:** And I know you would support me with any  
audition I need to pass to make up for those absent courses

 **deep.blue.seo** : So, really, I think this is a net positive.

 **deep.blue.seo** : Good friend, skill, love.

 **deep.blue.seo** : Don’t you think so?

**han.ji** : you’re a cheesy mfer you know that :’(

 **deep.blue.seo:** So you keep telling me

The bell went off and triggered the speedy flight of every student in the class. Jisung, one of those that walked home instead of taking the bus, was in no rush to get out, though that did make him the last one in the room. Before he left he pulled up his conversation with Changbin once more, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

 **Changbin** 🗡🌸

 **han.ji** : oh and binnie?

 **deep.blue.seo** : ?

 **han.ji** : 당신의 음악은 항상 그들의 음악보다 낫습니다

 **deep.blue.seo** : …

 **deep.blue.seo** : Fuck I love you so much

 **han.ji** : fgsjglksdjfa🥰

Maybe others would have been embarrassed to become so giddy over a handful of sentimental words from a friend. But, in a lot of ways, they weren’t just words, and this wasn’t just a friend. It was a blunt declaration of love, and it was Changbin. Those two things were precious _separately_ , let alone when they went hand-in-hand.

Going home was probably the reasonable choice. It meant food and warmth and general safety. But it was as if Jisung had grown seven feet tall, bumbling on his legs as he walked out the school’s back doors, while his house was no taller than two feet. He wouldn’t fit and he would suffer for trying.

So he took a walk.

The sun was warming the sidewalks, but the breeze left his skin in goosebumps. He barely noted the street signs as he strolled past them, only using them as loose indicators as to where he was and how long it would take him to get home. It was easy, this way, to lose time and space and just appreciate the air for what it was: _life_. They could hardly exist without one another, yet sometimes there was too much air and not enough life, or vice versa.

Sometimes, for Jisung, it was the latter.

He came up to the crosswalk that was notorious for its late changes, so he pulled out his phone to pass the time. Upon seeing the notification at the top of his screen, he let out a small cheer.

**your.wretched.highness posted a photo**

Double-tapping the screen and nearly bouncing on his toes, Jisung shrugged off the now-green light; he could kill time until the next one just staring at your.wretched.highness’ post, no matter what it was.

All across their page were pictures of their hands or ankles or wrists, smeared with worlds’ worth of colours. Sometimes the lines of their body were angry, the colours that marred them making the lines even angrier. Others it was like peering into a painting of a meadow, hoping to see behind it and perhaps smell the flowers. It was raw and beautiful—gorgeous _because_ it was unrefined. Jisung had no idea where in the world they lived, what they were like or why they posted things like this, but those questions were overshadowed by the artistry that came to life on their page.

Today, it was their hands, browns etched into their palms with green crawling up toward their fingers. White bloomed all across their skin, like something flaking away. Jisung had never commented on the posts— _what if they see it and get really offended because they don’t know what I mean?_ —but he always, _always_ liked them and added them to his story. The caption was a series of emojis: a tree, some stars, a night sky.

Then Jisung tapped on the “MORE” and felt his heart get sticky in his chest.

**Sometimes I’m a leaf in a forest, and sometimes I’m a tree in the heart of a volcano.**

The comments were mainly a collection of fire and heart-eye emojis. There were some who complimented your.wretched.highness on their colour choice, joked about their messy hands, called them a thinker. _But_ _can’t they see Highness is lonely?_

His fingers were uncertain as he typed out a response.

**Don’t you think the prettiest trees gr|**

**Don’t you |**

**I think you’r|**

**What’s wrong with being undetectable?|**

**And it’ll be that tree that survives when the others can’t bear the drought.**

He went to delete it—what was the point in throwing in something so useless among the praise and adoration?—but then someone bumped into Jisung, and his thumb hit the “send” button dead-centre.

“Oh, come _on!”_ he wailed.

 _You can delete it,_ he thought, shaking out his hands to get them back under his control. _No one has to see it—_

“Watch yourself, asshole.”

Jisung was not ashamed to say that he yelped at the voice, because the guy was practically steaming out of his ears with how furious he was. Jisung was no stranger to cursing out minor inconveniences, but even this felt like too much. He tightened his grip on his phone, careful to hide his hands in his pockets; he didn’t know how this man would react to even the slightest sign of aggression.

For a moment, he thought he was in the clear. But then the man was approaching him with unnecessary rage in his eyes, and Jisung felt his stomach rock so hard he feared acid had leaked into his chest. His skin burned liked it had, anyway.

“You know, people like you really piss me off,” the guy said, as if Jisung had even half the energy he needed to care. “It’s your generation that’s gonna burn this world down, and it’ll be because those stupid little heads of yours are buried in your phones.”

As if to mock him, Jisung’s phone came to life with a musical flourish in his pocket. He answered the call without much thought, only realizing after it was too late that he’d only managed to further anger the man across from him; he approached Jisung with the gait of a predator, and soon enough Jisung was left to press his back to the streetlight behind him. _Shit._

“Hey, Chris!” he said with faux enthusiasm. _Please be able to tell the difference._ “What’s up? You still set to pick me up at Adelade?”

 _“Of course I am,”_ Chris said loudly, without a second’s hesitation, because he was just that good. _“Your parents are waiting for you, after all, and you know how worried they get when you’re not home right away. In fact . . . I’m pulling up now, so get ready because you know how much the people around here hate when you stop in the middle of the road.”_

“I think everyone hates that, Chris.”

_“Meh.”_

Chris has never stopped in the middle of the road for anyone, and Jisung didn’t think he was about to start. But it made a convincing story, and that was all he needed; the man backed off with several quiet comments about the doomed destiny of the next generation, and Jisung could only laugh in his absence. _What a douchebag. He knows as much about the future as I do neurosurgery._

_“Ji?”_

“’m here.”

_“You okay?”_

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

_“I dunno. I . . .”_

“Don’t tell me you _felt something_ or I swear I’ll snap your keyboard in two.”

Chris’ silence was more infuriating than any answer could have been. His sixth sense when it came to the safety of his friends was nothing short of otherworldly, and Jisung had experienced many a moment when Chris simply _showed up_ when Jisung hadn’t even been able to verbalize what or whom he needed. It was eery, but it times like these, when Jisung was trapped between a rock and a hard place—or a traffic light and a scary Gen X—that he truly appreciated the strangeness of his friend.

“Chris . . .”

 _“Sorry,”_ Chris laughed, _“I should probably stop trying to freak you out. I was actually calling to ask if you’d heard anything about Hyunjin?”_

“Why would I have heard anything about Hyunjin?”

_“I—don’t know, actually. I just figured, since you were so quick to defend him in class, that maybe you’d run into him?”_

“You know, Chris, I’m sure that if you just talked to the guy he’d give you a minute of his time. You’re hot, he’s hot, you’d make a great couple.”

 _“You think— Why would I—_ Jisung _!”_

“Please don’t yell my name like that,” Jisung whined, “you’re not my mother.”

_“You’re damn lucky I’m not.”_

“And because you’re not my mother,” he continued, “I don’t feel even a little bad about this.”

With that, Jisung hung up.

He reminded himself that the sun was out. The air was refreshing. He reminded himself that he was surrounded by good things. The school was a few streets away. His friends would come tearing down the street if he so much as hinted at wanting their company. He was _surrounded by good_ , and yet—

The good felt empty.

In an attempt to combat his incoming existential crisis, Jisung pulled out his phone, nearly dropping the damn thing when he saw the new notification.

**your.wretched.highness liked your comment**

**your.wretched.highness mentioned you in a comment: @han.ji …**

“Oh, _fuck_.”

The good and the nothing fell away to reveal a simple, bright point, coloured pink and purple like the loading screen of his phone. He read and reread the comment—the _reply_ , the only time Highness has ever really acknowledged a comment—until his heart sung with it.

**@han.ji won’t I get lonely? I might be left standing, but that doesn’t matter if I’m /all that’s left./**

He was getting bold. Stupid. Stupid-bold.

**@your.wretched.highness then you’ll just have to create a whole new forest, won’t you?**

And before his bold stupidity could grow to detrimental proportions, Jisung jogged home, glad for the pounding in his ears that played as a backing track to Highness’ words circling his skull. His hands didn’t feel like real, tangible attachments to his body as he unlocked the door; they felt more like options, like he could pop them off and simply live without them until he decided to wear them again. Like they were gloves and not the limbs mean to go inside them.

He was being stupid. It was a reply from a user he liked. It wasn’t worth the swarm of bugs in his gut or the lighter-than-clouds feeling in his head.

Except that it was, because Jisung wanted to wrap himself up in those feelings and just drown in them instead of sitting here, at the table, listening to the usually-interesting conversation going on between his family. If he drowned, his lungs wouldn’t burn and his heart wouldn’t race; he would simply exist in a baseless, gentle world of giddiness. That was more pleasant than most options. It was better than the rough coldness of his hands as he cleared the dishes; it was more desirable than the messy buzz of his thoughts as he brushed his teeth and changed for bed. So what if he lost himself in the good? Wasn’t that the point of it all?

_But that’s not reality._

Reality, as far as Jisung Han was concerned, could suck his cock.

Even so, it seemed the universe was going to allow him one more moment of giddiness.

**@han.ji would you come visit me in that forest?**

Even as Jisung typed his response, he knew it was dumb. Idiotic. Stupid to the power of four.

But he sent it anyway.

**@your.wretched.highness I would spend lifetimes there.**

o.O.o

When Jisung fell into a comfortable slumber, his dreams were painted in bark-browns and emerald-greens, filled with the feeling of searching for _something,_ and with no promise of finding it. Still . . . Jisung wanted to find it anyway. As he stared up into the sky through the patchy shadows cast by leaves, he swore he would.

_I'll find him. I swear, this time, I'll find him, and he'll be okay._

o.O.o

From the moment he fell asleep to the moment he awoke, Jisung had searched and searched and searched—

And found nothing. 

In and of itself, it was just frustrating. Being unable to capture that which you sought would always be awful. It was only that . . . Everything was made worse by not knowing what—or _whom_ —he had been looking for. As he blinked away bits of his fatigue, he felt a centuries-old irritation rise up to his skin, itching in places he could never soothe with a satisfying scratch. Gone was the elation he'd felt yesterday, now replaced with a heaviness that burned and dragged him down towards depths he'd never truly known.

After all, he thought, the good was always empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: BinSung chose chan's insta username and he's just too sentimental to change it. He's the sort of person to get a pair of socks for Christmas and happily wear them.
> 
> Come yell at me on [curious cat!](https://curiouscat.qa/ahgaslayy) or [twitter!](https://twitter.com/svnsmayday)


	8. INTERLUDE: (Please) Destroy Me from the Inside Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by DANGERKIDS' "Inside Out"

The kingdom was rotting.

“Minho.”

 _Shut up_.

The castle’s stones were blackening, the crown of the land rusting.

“You know what you have to do.”

_Shut up, shut up, shut up._

“You’re the only one who can.”

“ _WHY?”_ he roared. “WHY _ME?”_

Hyunjin’s smile was made of a star’s dying light; fleeting, useless, a prelude to something much, _much_ heavier. Where had the bright king gone? What had happened to him between the Celestial Festival and now? What had become of him?

_My love, where are you?_

“Minho.”

“Stop that,” he said through his teeth. “Stop saying my name like that.”

“Like what, Minho?”

“ _LIKE YOU’RE DYING!”_

Hyunjin cast his gaze out the window, soul retreated so far into his body that Minho had to look for far too long to see traces of it. “Do you understand why my kingdom is dying, Minho?”

The words were trapped in his mouth. He knew what they were, for he’d said them himself not days ago. But he could not say them now.

“I did this,” Hyunjin whispered, face a wretched mess of compliant heartbreak. “I broke my people. My country. Why should I continue to live?”

“Hyunjin . . .” The air in the room was growing hotter. Minho’s lungs weren’t big enough to house all the air he needed to breathe. He had to say something. “ _Please_.”

“You know the only way to end this is to kill me,” he continued, “so why have you yet to strike me down?”

“Because I would sooner take my own life!”

Minho had almost forgotten the people on the other side of the door; when the banging resumed, he nearly jumped.

Nearly.

“ _Minho!”_ one of them hollered. “ _Let us in!”_

“I hate doing this to you,” Hyunjin said, so achingly small that Minho wanted to scream with the need to hold him. “To any of you. But you know that it has to be you. Don’t you?”

“Why?” _You’re becoming erratic_ , he thought as his breath began to leave him more quickly, more heavily. _Calm down_. “Because I’ve never bullshitted you? Because I’ve always shared my thoughts with you? Because I have been trying to tell you, _this whole time_ , that it was going to end this way?”

Hyunjin still wouldn’t look at him. “Precisely.”

“ _Hyunjin!”_ Minho shouted, voice worn through like someone had dropped acid onto silk. “I have stayed here, by your side, because _you_ matter! Just because I insisted on honesty doesn’t mean I want be the one to kill you!”

“But it means that you know I’m right.” Hyunjin stepped over to him, a sword’s length now between them. Minho wanted to drive his blade right into the ground, leave it there, leave the entire thing behind. He had to. Because . . .

“Minho.”

“ _MINHO!”_ Again, more banging on the door, this time sparks flying from under it. “I SWEAR ON MY LIFE, IF YOU HURT ONE HAIR ON HIS HEAD, I WILL _KILL YOU MYSELF_!” They were doing everything they could to tear the thing down; he wouldn’t be surprised if they were actively scorching the hinges where the door met the wall.

He couldn’t tell if he wanted them to succeed.

“Minho.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Minho seethed. “Hyunjin, _shut up_.”

When he peered up from beneath his brow to look at Hyunjin, he saw that the king had moved to stand in front of him. Hands bracketed Minho’s jaw, colder than any living person had any right to be. Hyunjin was beautiful enough to bring a country to its knees—

And he had done exactly that.

“Why didn’t you listen?” Minho whispered, giving in for just a moment and nuzzling Hyunjin’s palm. “Why didn’t you tell me it was getting this bad?”

“Because all I ever do is worry you,” Hyunjin responded, equally soft. “I wanted . . . I wanted this time to be different. I suppose it still is.”

Nausea rose up in Minho’s stomach as he reached his hand toward the hilt of his sword—only grew tenfold when Hyunjin quickly stamped down the fear in his eyes at the sight of the weapon. “Hyunjin, you know I would follow you anywhere. If you ask me, or any of us, we’ll do anything to help you.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“You don’t get to make that call anymore,” Minho snapped. He felt the way Hyunjin flinched and moved to keep his hands in place. The next hour could pass in whatever way the fates had decided, but Minho would betray the world to make sure he spent it with Hyunjin as close as possible. “You were never supposed to do this alone.”

The wall to his right shivered, turning black like a fruit forgotten beneath the tree from which it had fallen.

“I have to die to save my kingdom.” Hyunjin took the crown from his head, bits of rust falling from the lattice of its body. “And you have to be the one to kill me.”

Before he could start screaming, or let in the six guards that were still pounding away at the door, or turn his sword on himself, Minho drew the dagger from his belt. At any moment he could turn back. Change his mind.

He drove the blade forward.

Hyunjin’s gasp was choked, agonized, and Minho felt as if he’d been thrust into a waterfall.

_What have I done?_

But he knew: he had just taken the first step in killing his king.

Hyunjin fell into him, they two crashed to the floor. Enraged and betrayed and feeling the first traces of grief begin to settle, Minho threw the dagger across the room, only to bring that very same arm around Hyunjin’s shoulders to press their fronts together.

“You stupid, stupid man,” Minho whimpered, his words entirely out of his control. Blood began to soak through his armour. “How dare you do this to us.”

“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin replied, voice nothing more than whisps of breath. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“ _Stop that_.” Minho held on tighter, pressed his nose to Hyunjin’s hair and told himself it didn’t smell like centuries’ old metal. “You don’t get to spend your last breaths apologizing to me. They’re precious now. Use them for good things.”

He felt Hyunjin smile against his neck. “T-Then thank you for . . . always trying to keep me right.” His next breaths were shallow. “I know it didn’t amount to much, b . . . because we’re here, and I’m . . . I made you . . .” Warm wetness, just like the one soaking Minho’s clothes and soul, bloomed on his neck. “I love you. Each of you. Even if . . . even . . . if I . . . don’t get to say it anymore, after . . . this . . . .”

Minho didn’t pull away, didn’t look down or pay attention to the lack of heartbeat against his chest.

Sixty minutes passed, and Minho spent each of them with Hyunjin as close as possible.

He wanted to tear the heavens to shreds when the crown pieced itself back together and the walls lost their black ichor.


	9. Chapter 6 - Thoughts of You Consume

It was something of a task, trudging to school when you vividly remembered killing the man who had, allegedly, been the love of your life.

“Hey, Min?”

He wanted to go back home and sink into his mattress, turn from skin to cotton and never change back. He rubbed his palms along his jeans to rid himself of the feeling of blood coating his hands, though it did nothing for him. It was a lot more than a phantom sensation that stuck to him.

“Minho?”

He never wanted to hear his name spoken ever again. But that wasn’t an efficient way to be a functioning member of society, so Minho turned around to face whomever it was with a blank expression.

“Oh. Chris.”

Chris’ smile was sheepish and his eyes amused, but Minho could sense oddity in the way he held his bag at his side. Something was off. “What did I do to deserve _that_ greeting?”

“Nothing,” Minho said honestly, “but I’m also not gonna put on a smile for your sake.”

Chris dimmed at that, face bent in worry. “You sleep well last night?”

Minho had to catch himself before he stepped back; this was Chris’ usual response to his friends shuffling into school with bags under their eyes _and_ over their shoulders, but there was something about the _way_ he’d said it—as if he knew more than he was willing to share.

“Had a weird dream. That’s all.”

Chris sucked on his bottom lip, brows dipping even further as his gaze grew stormy. “Shit.”

The ceilings were about to cave if Christopher Bang had been pushed to the point of cursing. “Um. Are you good?”

But Chris was already righting himself, adjusting his bag and giving Minho one of those gorgeous smiles. “Nothing. I’m fine. If those dreams keep themselves up . . . Let me know. Or Seungmin.”

“Sky? The _instrumental kid?”_

Chris arched a brow. “You know more than one Seungmin in this school?”

“Well—no.”

“Then break the barriers between disciplines! Have a chat with him, ask him for teas and tuning tips.”

Minho clicked his tongue. “I’m in dance, I don’t need tuning tips.”

“You have Musical Theatre next semester. You’ll thank me then.”

Damn him for being right. “You know my schedule.”

“Do you not remember how nervous you were, signing up for the course?” Chris laughed to himself, and it wasn’t hard to fall into step with him as they made their way around the first floor. “The only way I could convince you to take it was if I stayed by your side the whole time.”

“Singing’s hard,” Minho muttered into his binders.

“It is,” Chris agreed, “but you’re more than capable. I’ve heard you sing to yourself. There’s a little singer in that chest of yours.”

“He needs to start paying rent if he’s not gonna help me belt it out.”

 _Fuck_ if Chris’ giggles weren’t worth more than gold. “He just needs a little bit of encouragement.”

Minho was going to respond to that—conversing with Chris was usually the easiest fix to his ailments—but one head farther down the hall was stealing his breath: Hyunjin Hwang, head bent as he stared at the bottom of his locker. He seemed totally absent, like his sightline was whited out and his senses dulled.

Minho had to fight back the sickness that seized this stomach; his dream was a one-off thing, a phenomenon never to be repeated and _certainly_ kept separate from his day-to-day. He had to make himself believe that, at least.

But there was no escaping Hyunjin; because of the flip-flopping schedule on which the school ran, Minho had class with him in five minutes.

“Fuck.”

Hyunjin’s head whipped up, suddenly all too aware of his surroundings as he blinked—

And zeroed in on Minho.

The school was by no means young, so maybe that’s what allowed for Minho to fall into the illusion that they weren’t at school at all—that they were far away, in another life, where maybe castle walls didn’t spell doom and death.

_Your Majesty._

Minho braced a hand against his forehead. Chris moved from his side.

“Ah,” he said, “you spilled your coffee. Lemme get some paper towels.”

“Oh,” Hyunjin breathed, as disoriented as Minho felt, “that’s okay—”

“I insist.”

“No you don’t.”

Chris turned around with eyes big enough to make Minho consider eating his words. He hadn’t even meant to speak, _but_. “You have class on the third floor,” he continued, “and there’s three minutes to class. Get your ass going. I’ll help His Highness.”

A moment passed wherein they just stared at each other, Hyunjin fidgeting with his hands as Chris pursed his lips. Were his lips shaking? Minho only eyed the clock that sat at the top of the wall.

With a sigh and one final look at Hyunjin, Chris scurried up the stairs. Minho made a quick trip to the washroom to gather up an obscene amount of toilet paper in his hands and blotted the floor of Hyunjin’s locker. “I’ve never understood why there’s only one place in this school to score _actual_ paper towel.”

Hyunjin cracked a smile. “I guess the trumpets upstairs matter more than my poor backpack.”

“I say we plan a heist. Steal the paper towels, Robin-Hood that shit. We’d be heroes.”

“Did you just use Robin Hood as a verb?”

“Yes, _and?”_

Hyunjin’s smile turned smaller, though no less bright. “Nothing. It was just funny.”

Minho rose, damp toilet paper in his hands and heart shining at the compliment, locking eyes with Hyunjin as he did so. Hyunjin wasn’t exceptionally taller than Minho, but with the dream from last night playing in Minho’s head like a movie from the 50s, the small difference in their stature was enough to leave Minho without a tether to the ground.

“Sorry for the trouble,” Hyunjin said as he ducked away from the lingering stare of a passerby. “You didn’t have to help.”

“I wanted to.”

“I guess helping out _His Highness_ gets you some sort of bonus points.”

They had been civil just two seconds ago. What the fuck had changed? “Hyunjin . . .”

But even Hyunjin was surprised, because he bit down on his lip and turned his wide eyes on Minho. “Oh. That’s. Not what I meant?”

“No,” Minho pressed, “you just—”

“It’s fine.”

“Hyunjin—”

“You don’t need to start using my name. Don’t ever use it, if you don’t want.”

When Hyunjin passed him, Minho expected his shoulder to be bumped, or something to be muttered in his ear, but Hyunjin put as much distance between them as possible as he slung his back over his shoulder and headed for the dance studio. Minho’s veins squirmed at the thought, because his dream was still very much a part of his reality, and Hyunjin walking away—it was as good a shot to the heart as any arrow or bullet.

 _Or dagger_.

Minho threw out the napkins with more anger than was necessary. At least it hid the shakiness in his hands.

The bell rang just as Minho stepped through the door. Most of his classmates were still sifting into the studio from the changing room, leaving Minho to stand in the corner and watch over the floor like some surly owl. Old, drained, all-seeing.

What he wouldn’t give to lose a bit of sight.

Felix Lee sprung up in front of him like a particularly chipper daisy, all bright petals and jubilant core. “You’re Minho, right?”

“I’m very reluctant to answer that question right now.”

Felix’s smile fluttered, a glitching butterfly of pink lips and ivory teeth. “I did this wrong, didn’t I?”

 _Be gentler with him_. Minho couldn’t tell if that was his own thought, or one had by the version of him which had bathed in Hyunjin’s blood. Either way . . . “No. It’s—nothing you did. I promise. I’m just having an off day.”

The sun came out in Felix’s smile when he rushed to grab his bag and presented it to Minho. It reminded Minho of the way his cats would drop a dead mouse outside his bedroom door. Flattering, but horrifying and unsanitary.

“Open it.”

And so Minho opened the bag. What lay inside was worlds more pleasant than a rodent’s carcass coated in saliva. “You made _petit fours._ ”

“I know we’re about to dance and all that, but I just wanted to let you know that they’re for you.”

Minho’s stupid little heart spun around with a happy cry. “For me?”

“I’ve only been here a week,” Felix said, cheeks slowly turning rosy, “and I can see how much these people look up to you. You help them without prompting, and you talk to the teacher on behalf of them, and—and you’rekindasortareallypretty.”

“I’m kinda sorta really pretty, huh?” Minho clarified around his growing grin. “That gets me brownie points with you?”

“Did you want brownies? Because those are, like, my staple—”

Minho, tired and confused and seven separate flavours of flattered, giggled. “If they’re half as good as these look, I’ll be asking for some.” He looked down at the container of tiny cakes in his hands. “But Felix, seriously, this is . . . Thank you.”

There was a gilded memory sitting before him, of a cottage kitchen dusted with flour and laughter. Felix, stood in front of the stove, whisking away at three pots while asking for the next step in the recipe. The other six . . . were going to be home soon, and Felix wanted to finish before then.

Minho gripped the container of cakes with enough ferocity to settle back into reality via pain.

When Felix grinned, he may as well have been made of stardust. Minho’s heart was back on its bullshit, almost cramping with how fond it was of Felix. _I would die a million times_ , he thought, _if it meant I got to see that smile at least one more time_.

He was glad for the _ding_ that meant announcements were starting, because he couldn’t pick apart the swell of feelings in his chest. He would pass out if he so much as tried.

“ _Goooood morning, Bluebeaks! Happy Monday! I know we’re all still trying to get back into the rhythm of school, so stop leaning on that hand. You’ll fall asleep. You know you will_.”

Maybe that would have been funny if Minho wasn’t currently fighting off a downward spiral centred around the meaning of his mortality.

Probably not.

“ _To all our ninth graders: I hope your first week with us was a blast! Don’t be afraid to ask one of the teachers or seniors in the hall if you’re ever lost”_ —Minho had never been approached by anyone, having been told that his resting bitch face was just a bit too strong—“ _because we’re all here to make this a freshman year you’ll never forget. You only get to do high school once, after all! Speaking of our seniors . . . This year is your_ pro-o-om _!”_

Minho dropped his head. “Why did she have to _sing it?”_ he groaned. Felix, now perched beside him, buried a snort in the palm of his hand.

 _“We need the prom committee to start up_ really early _this year. Scheduling conflicts and a whole bunch of administrative jazz made it so. This is also the first year we’re introducing prom royalty!”_

He couldn’t help it: he had to look at Hyunjin.

Except that Hyunjin had _been_ looking at him.

A thundercloud bloomed between them as if someone had stuck their hands into the air and tore it open, drawing out all the safe air—leaving behind the heavy, intoxicating smoke that permeated Minho’s dreams.

 _“All the kings, queens, and majesties out there are up for the crowns, so put on your best smiles and make sure to kill ‘em with kindness! Right now! Yes,_ right now. _Voting starts today at lunch, and it will continue until the doors open at prom. Each student gets five votes. Whichever pair of seniors ends the year with the most votes, wins!”_

“This is the first time they’re doing this,” Felix murmured, “and they’re making it a rat race?”

“Welcome to the mockery of democracy that is high school. I don’t know a single person that would ask for this.”

Felix winced, looking around the room. “Maybe you just don’t know enough people?”

But the energy in the room couldn’t be mistaken: everyone was muttering about either not having the time to vote or dreading the inevitable inflation of egos.

Minho barely listened as the student in charge of announcements rattled off the clubs that would be starting up next week, stealing glances at Hyunjin, who looked a little too pale in the cheeks.

When the intercom shut off with a _click_ , the teacher clapped her hands together. “All right, let’s get to work.” Her gaze shifted as she took her spot in front of the mirror, flitting here and there, landing on . . . Hyunjin? “I hope the prospect of having a crown on your head isn’t about to distract you from doing a good job.”

Hyunjin ducked his head. For some reason, Minho had a bleeding pain in his gut that said he was fighting off tears.

The race for the crown, no matter how unenthusiastic, had begun, and Minho . . . He wasn’t sure he could stomach the thought of any head but Hyunjin’s bearing it. It was surely metallic plastic and gaudy acrylic gems, but it was still a _crown_ ; it was still the status of a king. And Hyunjin was the king.

 _His_ king.

Whatever that meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me on [curious cat](https://curiouscat.qa/runningwstars)?
> 
> I take [commissions](https://ko-fi.com/runningwstars), so if you like stuff like this . . . give me a chance ?


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